


the days of no surrender

by finalizer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fanon Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, The Tension Is Astounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7590604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing worse than one angry overlord is two angry overlords. And with each growing furious at the other in rapid succession, two simultaneous ticking time bombs, everything is certain to go to shit. It’s written in the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the days of no surrender

**Author's Note:**

> back into the garbage chute i go

There’s never any warning before it starts, no matter how grand the aftermath. The tension bubbles beneath the surface until it snaps, and the shift is almost audible in the deathly silence.

When they argue, it’s grand and terrifying, to say the least. Orcs twitch in their seats, foot soldiers and captains alike, waiting for all hell to break loose. It all comes down to speculation: will Mairon lose his calm, will Melkor retaliate with a bored dismissal, will verbal blows turn to violent scuffles — so, it’s the uncertainty that does it. Countless bystander orcs have lost their head, or perhaps a less vital appendage, solely for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, in dangerous proximity to whatever makeshift weapon either of their overlords had decided to hurl at the other.

But, the worst part: unpredictability.

Mairon slams his hand down on the table and pushes his chair back to stand. Melkor falls silent in surprise, ceasing his disinterested refusal of the other’s plan. Everything in the council room stills, Thuringwethil feels a frightened orc to her left grab her hand. She pulls it away and her glare is enough to wither a second attempt.

No one says anything, Mairon fuming in silence as he stares down the length of the table at his master. The captains hold their breath. Thuringwethil makes a mental bet with herself, trying to infer whether the disagreement will end in bloodied knuckles or a very different sort of physical activity altogether.

Melkor speaks first, a dry, “Yes?”

It takes a moment for Mairon to answer. The gears are turning in his mind, a dangerous, well-oiled machine, and he doesn’t respond until his thoughts are collected and his voice distant and level.

“This is cowardice. You may have the upper hand now, but the tide will turn unless you choose to act first. March out before they even have a chance to strike.”

Melkor rolls his eyes and Mairon visibly twitches in suppressed anger. “No one’s descending upon us, Mairon. This is your paranoia guiding your plan.”

Mairon huffs disdainfully and clenches his fists at his sides. He’s durable, he can ignore the biting remarks thrown at him — so long as they don’t mock his intelligence, or discredit the reputation he’s worked so long to establish.

“Not yet, perhaps, but they will, and sooner or later we’ll be besieged. I trust there’s no need to explain the strategic disadvantages of such a situation?”

No one pipes up.

Mairon continues, self-satisfied. “Don’t give the scum a chance to close in on our walls, my lord. Give the order and I will personally see to assembling a charge.”

The tension thickens. Despite Mairon’s relaxed words, and Melkor’s wordless stare from his ornate throne, the conflict festers and the delicate balance threatens to spill.

The gathered orcs flick their eyes from one end of the table to the other, trying to anticipate the upcoming reactions, gauge the party more likely to turn to violence, track every available escape route. They’re damned, comes the realization — the only exit being the grand double doors, bolted shut for the duration of the council.

Melkor’s response is everything they hoped it wouldn’t be. Short, concise, purposefully belittling. “I will not order a mindless, poorly anticipated strike.”

“I daresay it’s not — ” Mairon cuts in, and is immediately silenced as Melkor sternly raises a hand.

“I expected better of you. What you’re proposing, _lieutenant_ , is a waste of troops and resources. Why, it makes us out to be fearful, almost insecure in the position we hold.”

He drawls Mairon’s title like an insult. It’s no surprise Mairon reacts instantly, shoving his long-discarded chair even further back to allow him to stalk down the hall to Melkor’s end of the table.

The entire assembly chokes on their gasps. They’ve long since outgrown muttered whispers amongst each other, exchanging rumors about the sheer magnitude of the damage fights like these can cause.

Now, it’s a suffocating fear of the unknown. The only thing worse than one angry overlord is two angry overlords — it’s needless to say that they are the only ones capable of successfully calming the other. And with each growing furious at the other in rapid succession, two simultaneous ticking time bombs, everything is certain to go to shit. It’s written in the stars.

Mairon defiantly stalks onto the dais and towards an amused Melkor, stopping at the threshold of the throne.

“Is this a joking matter to you?” he snarls, in a less than formal, entirely undiplomatic fashion.

Thuringwethil shifts all her mental betting cards to option two. The meeting will end with Mairon pushed face first into the table, gasping with Melkor’s hands in his hair, and she prays to whatever deities are listening that she won’t have to be here to witness it all go down.

On second thought, she realizes the only deity close enough to hear her pleading is Melkor himself, and she’d rather he didn’t get inside her head, ever, thank you very much.

“This is very untoward behavior, Mairon,” Melkor stage whispers, leaning closer to Mairon as if to disclose a secret. Those closest to the pair try and fail to scoot their chairs further away — the derision in Melkor’s voice is palpable, as is the fury emanating from Mairon’s very person in powerful waves.

“You’re not even listening to me.”

“I would, if you had something worthwhile to say. I do think we’re done here.”

Mairon stands up straight, recoiling. “We most certainly are not. We’ve reached no consensus. No decision has been made concerning our movements. How can you idly sit by and watch everything fall apart around you like this?”

“Careful,” Melkor warns.

And that should’ve been the first sign — proverbial alarm bells going off in the hall. Thuringwethil eyes the window, asserting the damage her winged counterpart would suffer if she shattered the glass and made a swift escape.

Mairon leans close again, snarling at Melkor, bared teeth and all. It’s very nearly a distraction — Melkor had told his lieutenant innumerably often how dangerous his beauty was — but neither is swayed by the proximity. Not yet, at least. Practice makes perfect: they ignore the blooming tension until it’s too much to resist.

“You warn me to be careful, yet you’re the one cautiously doing nothing in fear of a powerful rebuttal. This isn’t a fight where you can show off your might and sweep the enemy off their feet. This is a legitimate war, a _real threat_ , and your chances dwindle as you postpone attack after attack.”

“Last time I checked, your word was not law.”

Mairon sets his jaw. “Maybe it should be.”

The hand-holding orc beside Thuringwethil lets out a muffled sob. He’s seen plenty in his lifetime, she supposes. His fear is valid.

The pressure boils over. The world stops moving, the wind stops whistling. Everything lies in wait of Melkor’s rage. The gathered soldiers wonder if this is how it feels, to know one is about to die, and not be able to do anything about it.

Naturally, the relief is almost physically painful when Melkor, still glaring directly at his lieutenant, speaks to the assembled council.

“Everyone out.”

There’s no hesitation whatsoever. Captains scramble over one another, assorted orcs making a panicked break for the door. Thuringwethil, leisurely treading behind the escaping throng, wishes Mairon was facing her way, just so she could send him a knowing wink. There’s always next time.

The door slams shut behind the crowd, the metallic clang echoing throughout the empty hall.

“How dare you?” Melkor snaps, and the previous levity is gone from his tone.

Mairon tries to take a step back, reality hitting him with full force, but he’s halted as Melkor grabs his wrist. Mairon, instinctively, tries to pull away, but the grasp is unforgiving.

“I didn’t mean — ”

“No, you _did_ mean that. Should I be worried that the power your position offers is going to your head? Demote you back to a beginner’s rank? I’m sure Gothmog — ”

Mairon’s eyes widen despite his best intentions to remain calm. “No. I’m — my lord, I’m sorry. I got carried away. Thoughtless babbling. It was not my intention to — ”

His words die in his throat as Melkor rises, towering at least a head taller than Mairon. He takes a step back and internally curses himself for his susceptibility to the blatant intimidation tactic.

“Do you have anything to add, Mairon? Perhaps you would like to lead our forces against Valinor?” He pauses and lets out a dismissive huff. “Hm, maybe dismiss the armies altogether and take on them singlehanded. You do so love to overestimate your capabilities.”

“ _You do so love_ to twist my words,” Mairon echoes, and the venom is back in his voice. The thrill of argument almost masks the concealed terror he’s plagued by.

“Twist your words? Did you not just suggest you would succeed in assuring a swift victory for our forces?”

Mairon raises his eyebrows in challenge. “That I did. With your permission I could ensure your long awaited victory. But notice I never suggested we rally the troops and go squabble with your brother.”

The resounding slap that follows is almost predictable, subconsciously anticipated on Mairon’s part. Still, it doesn’t stop him from stumbling back with a shaking hand pressed against his cheek. He screws his eyes shut and breathes, forces his anger to subside. If he retaliates with blows, they’ll accomplish nothing, save for marking the other with persistent bruises for days to come.

“I thought I made it crystal clear that you’re not to mention my brother if you want to remain on good terms.”

“We’re already on bad terms,” Mairon spits, turning back to face his lord. He won’t shy away from a good, old fashioned debate — that’s the difference between them: Mairon prides himself on confronting conflict. “Can it get any worse?”

And maybe, just maybe, purposefully igniting the very conflict he later has to confront.

Melkor’s whole demeanor is cold. “It can.”

Mairon snorts out a laugh and turns on his heel, pacing grandly around the dais. Melkor watches his movements like an observant predator.

“ _Look at you_.” He motions at Melkor and every part of him drips mockery. He’s walking a dangerous path, but the exhilaration makes it worth it. “All self-assured and menacing. Where was that when we needed bold decisions? Where was that when I suggested we make the first move? Where was that when we needed a decisive leader?”

“And where is _your_ respect?”

Mairon cocks his head. The glint in his eyes is dangerous. He’s hard to subdue once he gets going. “Suffocated by your cowardice.”

Melkor lunges towards him, but Mairon sidesteps the advance, swiftly dancing out of reach.

“You could display some initiative for once, my lord. It would solidify your authority. Or so I presume, of course. What do I, a lowly lieutenant, know about tactic?”

“You ought to watch your mouth.”

“You ought to grow a pair,” Mairon fires back without missing a beat.

It’s turned into a game of cat and mouse for him, albeit slightly more treacherous and more likely to end in bloody injury.

Melkor tries very hard not to take offense. He’s not sure he could keep himself from murdering Mairon with his bare hands if he charged at him. “Your impertinence grows boring.”

“As does your indolence,” Mairon retorts, then politely adds an overdone, “ _my lord_.”

“Are you waiting for my patience to run out? Actively getting on my nerves to see just how far my tolerance extends?”

“I’m just having a conversation.”

“You think yourself worthy of special treatment.” Melkor doesn't phrase it as a question.

Mairon purses his lips. “Actually, I do.”

“Oh, and what makes you think you’re deserving?”

“Why don’t you come over here and find out.”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

“ _Make me_.”

This time, Melkor doesn’t hesitate, just pounces forward at Mairon, who leans against the end of the meeting table in wait. He grins, and it’s positively filthy in its boldness.

There’s a dull spike of pain as the back of Mairon’s head hits the marble, Melkor’s hand on his throat roughly pinning him in place. But it’s all worth it when his master’s lips close over his own, and then there’s nothing left to it, really. Biting, punishing kisses, choked exhales when the pressure around his windpipe finally relents. And history repeats itself.

 

Thuringwethil, who’d lingered in the hall outside the chamber, collects her imagined winnings as her infrared senses confirm the anticipated result of the argument. It’s a blessing to all the inhabitants of the fortress that they’d reached an accord, regardless of whether or not it actually resolved the issue concerning the attack plan. They’ll be more pliant around round three, that much she knows, and hopes for the best.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i actively used the _make me_ cliché


End file.
